


five (or six) times tommy successfully annoyed technoblade and the one time he failed

by jamingbenn



Series: sbi idol au [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Sleepy Boys Inc. (Video Blogging RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Idols, Family Dynamics, Family Fluff, Found Family, Gen, One Shot, Sleepy Boys Inc - Freeform, Slice of Life, but more so uh, but this is why we love him!, gen - Freeform, sbi, sbi idol au, tommy is an annoying brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:53:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27350785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamingbenn/pseuds/jamingbenn
Summary: “Why’d you have one of those, man?” Tommy gestured at Techno's, er, mimosa, confused."I am very susceptible to peer pressure,” Techno said, his voice only a little slurred.Wilbur waved wildly at the mass of people behind them. Jay-Z, Lizzo, Miley Cyrus, and Taylor Swift could be seen vaguely dancing around. “What peers?!” He asked, strained, and a little disbelieving.Techno looked sadly into his rapidly emptying glass.“Philza Minecraft,” he said, forlorn.or, sbi are a pop band idol group and tommy is as annoying as ever. but sometimes, and only sometimes, he does put that energy into good use.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: sbi idol au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997446
Comments: 67
Kudos: 1067





	1. 5 (or 6) times tommy successfully annoyed techno

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Qekyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qekyo/gifts).



> inspired by the lovely kiskurs, who graciously gave me permission to play in her world. PLEASE do check out the [sbi idol au fanart](https://twitter.com/Kiskurs/status/1316847324358938624/photo/1) she made, because it is so much more glorious than this fic suggests.
> 
> for ness, who bullied me until i actually wrote this.
> 
> thank you reah for the beta, and by beta, i mean she desperately tried to pry my precious commas out of my bare hands but alas i am a valiant fighter and also a CHAMPION. any remaining mistakes are all my own ♥
> 
> as always, completely fictional, with no intentions to disrespect the people whom these characters were based upon. yada yada, love u all.

**[1. the time Tommy was bitching about his outfit]**

“Stop fussing with that!” Wilbur’s sharp voice cut through the scattered bustle of their dressing room.

Techno opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the tackiness of his freshly applied mascara. Phil met his gaze through the mirror, cocking his head to the left, a silent “ _you or me?_ ” code they’ve now perfected. Techno sighed before shrugging, wanting to wait it out just a little longer. Maybe for once, Tommy and Wilbur could work out a spat within themselves. Hey, miracles happen, you know. He made a pig fly once.

(Okay, only in Minecraft, but shh. Don’t crush _all_ his hopes and dreams.)

“Listen, Wilbur, I don’t— Is there nothing we can do about— I don’t like how this shirt falls, man,” Tommy said, going for casual, but his joking tone was laced with a genuine note of distress.

“You wore the same damn thing in the cover photoshoot! What’s wrong with it now? You’re such a baby, Christ,” Wilbur rolled his eyes, glancing at how Tommy was fiddling nervously with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Hey, shut up, I’m twice a man you’ll ever be!” Tommy rebutted. “A man who’s shirt is gonna fall off on stage, but still.” He finished weakly, restless hands tugging on the thin, billowy fabric.

Phil sighed. “What’s going on?” He stood, ruby red blazer cutting out an imposing figure.

“The neckline— I don’t know, Phil, it’s a bit too—“ Tommy bent over, swooping his hand around his head before following through with the rest of his body, trying out a key part of their choreography that they were due to perform in about an hour. “Listen, I know everyone’s dying for a look at my, uh, hot bod, but really, I’m not gonna flash anyone, am I?”

_Hot bod_ , Techno mouthed, his eyes closing slowly. TommyInnit, everyone. The one and only. Isn’t this kid just a piece of work?

“You’ll be moving too fast for anyone to see anything meaningful anyways,” Wilbur dismissed, but his gaze started narrowing too, betraying his concern. “It does look good, though,” he offered. “Flattering.”

Niki fluttered about, mouth twisting unhappily. “You know I can’t just change you into a different shirt. Everyone’s supposed to be matching the cover art today.”

Techno stayed quiet, surveying the scene from his perch on his make-up chair. It wasn’t hard to see why Tommy was worried. His silky shirt was an off-white cream color, elegant and regal, but the little buttons holding the shirt together were tiny and kept popping back open. Niki, whose eyebrows were knitted together in concentration, had taped them shut from the inside, a little stylist trick that had saved Techno himself from a wardrobe malfunction or two.

Tommy was still fidgeting with his neckline, a wide v-line narrowing down to a point a couple of inches below his collarbones. The loose, whimsical fabric moved with every motion, however, and Tommy was, if nothing else, an extremely enthusiastic dancer. Hence why he was still pulling on it, this way and that, trying to map out a safe range of motion.

Wilbur caught one of Tommy’s flared sleeves with a firm hand. “Stop making it worse. Christ, learn how to stay still, won’t you? Niki, could we just—“

“Yeah. Listen, Tommy, Jesus, stand still so I can actually— yeah.” Niki said, distracted, trying to pinch the fabric up higher without stabbing Tommy. Her vowels were slipping into the rounded sounds of her German accent, a little habit made more prominent whenever she was stressed. “I’m gonna try to sew the neckline up harder, but you have to watch out for my needl—“

“You literally wore this thing last week! Why’s there only a problem now?” Wilbur interrupted, unhappy at the tense press of Niki’s lips. “Don’t rip through the threads.”

“Sorry, I was distracted by how utterly handsome I looked that day, alright, I wasn’t bloody dancing while posing with flowers and shit, was I now.” Tommy snapped back. He exhaled. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine. I’ll just have to make sure I don’t give ‘em more of a show than they asked for.”

Techno snorted, a little amused thing. “I think that’s exactly what they want, Tommy. Think of all the likes the fancam’ll get on Twitter, man.”

Wilbur burst into a gleeful peel of laughter. “The _views_ , Tommy, oh god, it’ll be a 100k-er for sure.”

Tommy, despite the uneasy look in his eyes still, couldn’t resist. His face spread into an easy, wide grin, cracking up and earning himself a swat with a hissed, “Stay still! Do you _want_ to be stabbed?!” from Niki.

“You think that’s the move, big man? Maybe I should just rip my shirt straight off, huh, you think that’ll get me trending?”

Philza raised his hand to his forehead. “No, Tommy.”

Techno grinned. “I’m just saying,” he offered in sing-song.

“Nooo,” groaned Phil. “I’m serious, Tommy, Techno, you’re horrible, please don—“

“Actually,” Techno began, an idea forming. He stood up, smoothing down the little ruffles running down the left side of his own dress shirt, which was strapped into a deconstructed, blood-red leather jacket. 

“If you’re worried about the,” he demonstrated the little twisting move Tommy’s been running through, “this part for the bridge, what if you did this instead?” Techno asked, blocking out the moves with his hand in front of his chest instead of the original, slow raise above his head.

Tommy hummed doubtfully, but he also stopped twisting the cuff on his sleeve. “Like,” he tried, “from the— yeah, 5, 6, 7, and a 8—“

The motions of their latest dance routine were pretty committed muscle memory by this point, having spent hours and hours nailing down every last detail in practice rooms, in dorm rooms, and hell, they’ve even been running through this arrangement in their tour bus, pouring over video footage as they scoured for imperfections.

“No, a little closer, just to match us, yeah,” Wilbur was saying, singing along lowly as he watched the duo run through the song. “Da da da, da da _dum_ , yeah, and turn, and stand, and block.”

“That totally works,” Phil offered. “Shirt still looks good, too. Fluid. Good call, Techno.”

“Yeah, Technoblade, good work, man,” Tommy was saying, still running through the motions, perfecting this last minute change. “Gotta share some of that with the rest of us, you know. How’d you do it, big man?”

“Well, you know,” Techno starts, his voice disingenuously light. “It’s simple, really.”

“Yeah?” Tommy asked, looking up to meet his gaze, grinning.

“Yeah,” Techno spread his hands magnanimously. Let himself smirk, wide, with all the mirth he could possibly gather.

“Just get good, you casual.”

**[2. the time when Wilbur and Tommy just wouldn’t shut up in practice, dear christ, why was it always these two, I swear to god, I’ll stab them in their sleep and no one would ever notice, they wouldn’t even be leaving orphans behind.]**

“Tommy,” Wilbur gritted out. “You’re out of sync _again_.”

“NO!” Tommy shouted back, stabbing an accusing finger into the center of Wilbur’s chest. “You’re the one that’s going too fast!”

Techno felt his temples ache with the beginnings of what he liked to call, a WilburInnit Headache. Capitalizations and all.

“I’m having fun,” he announced to a room that cared none at all, his monotone voice drowned out by Wilbur and Tommy’s arguing. 

He turned to face Phil. “I dropped out of college for this,” Techno informed him, helpfully.

“I know, Techno.” Phil said. “I know.”

“Aren’t you having fun, too?” Techno tried on a smile, his absolute insincerity twisting it into a terrifying, manic sneer.

“So much fun, Techno,” Phil said into the hand he was now holding his head with. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he raised his voice in an attempt to outcompete with their bandmates’ shouts. (And failing miserably.) “Such unbelievable amounts of fun.”

Tit for tat. 

“Isn’t it so nice that our future all hinges on this one performance?” Techno shouted, as loud as he could this time, cutting through the garbled chaos that was Tommy’s hollering. “MAYBE WE SHOULD JUST RUN THROUGH IT ONE MORE TIME?”

Wilbur snapped his mouth shut in an instant, startled. Tommy was still going at full steam, of course.

“WHICH IS WHY I WAS PERFECTLY ON TEMPO and you were… uh…” Tommy paused, trailing off at the sudden silence in the room. He looked between Techno and Phil shiftily. “Awfully quiet, aren’t we, today.”

Techno tried desperately to unclench his lower jaw. Nope, that doesn’t work anymore. Maybe it’s just gonna stay screwed onto his face from now on. 

Phil cleared his throat. He was fighting to keep a laugh off his face, but Techno looked so comically tense, it destined to be a losing battle. “Alright guys,” he tried. “Let’s regroup. Just go over the bridge, watch out for the tricky rest, and Tommy, you do have to hold your harmony for a quarter beat more than the rest of us.”

God bless Phil, Techno thought. He could feel the throbbing ease up already.

“I know! I finish with the guitar! I’ve seen the music, okay, I’m a professional, I promise you it’s the exact same beat! Which is how I know I’m right,” Tommy protested, all in one rushed go. He sucked in a sharp breath of air, holding it for just a second, before— “Wilbur was just rushing!”

Tommy waved wildly in Wilbur’s general direction, which was quite unnecessary seeing how the aforementioned man was right in front of him, but the slight against him was still stinging. Why was he always the one fucking up, just, automatically?

“Okay, but it doesn’t matter if the guitar’s right if the rest of us were rushing, you have to match us, or it’ll just end up sounding more wrong,” Wilbur pointed out, strained.

“ _Or_ ,” Tommy tried, his voice hardening again, “the rest of you can just _get your shit together_ and fix where you’ve been rushing, since we are in practice, after all, the last time I bloody checked—”

“Right,” Techno tried, physically putting himself in between the two seething men. “Pretty sure that fault’s on the both of you.”

“I take offense to that,” Tommy replied.

“I take offense to that as well,” Wilbur echoed. “But specifically regarding the part where I was lumped in with Tommy.”

Techno closed his eyes, fighting the urge to clock one or both of them. The blabbering just never stopped. It just never stopped, did it? Why does Techno even bother, when he was clearly being punished for some grand crime he had no awareness of. There was no other reasonable explanation for how much pain he was made to go through, being in the same band as—

Behind him, he heard a low giggle.

Feeling dread pool in his chest, he whirled around slowly, a furious finger pointed, ready to admonish whoever dared to find joy in this great moment of pain.

Unfortunately, there was only betrayal to be had, as he found himself pointing, enraged, accusing, at one Philza Minecraft. Who was so desperately trying to keep his laughter in, both hands clamped over his mouth, but no, his mirth was still leaking out of his beet red face in little gasping bursts.

Techno’s eyes closed once more. He never once asked to suffer, and yet, still, somehow, he always does.

  
  


**[3. the time Techno's dedication to the craft failed him, thank you Tommy, for betraying our brotherhood]**

You weren’t normally supposed to give rehearsal stages your absolute best effort, but somehow, Techno always managed to forget that.

Especially when it’s a stadium stage, there’s just too much ground to cover. Unless you were TommyInnit, it was best to save all that energy for the actual performance. No matter the fact that there seemed to be a couple of fans in the nosebleeds, probably folks who won a raffle for soundcheck tickets.

Either way, Techno was exhausted, propping himself up with his hands on his knees as a sympathetic staff member fanned him gently with a program. He winced at how his beading sweat dripped into his eyes, swiping a hand over his face as he blinked. Goddamnit, Florida was not the place to be holding a concert in the middle of July.

The rest of the boys were huddled over Phil’s phone, watching over a recording of their last. Their manager, David, usually took them so they could just check for any last minute inconsistencies and get a better idea of how their stage presence translated from the practice rooms onto the stage. “Monitoring” was what they usually called it.

Techno would be right with them, if not for the fact that they were standing right in the sun, and he couldn’t even imagine how disgustingly sticky they all had to be, sweating through the sweats and tank tops they were wearing.

As if to prove his point, when Tommy raised his hand from where it was casually resting against Phil’s shoulder, his arm pulled away with a slick, wet sound. Techno winced. No thank you. That video recording wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was he. He’ll stay right here with his personal space and misery and general contempt for society, please.

Except Tommy, hell bent on ruining all of his well formed plans, raised his hand in that moment to beckon Techno over, face lit up with a huge, shit-eating grin. “Techno!”

Techno sighed. Even his general contempt for society could not out-power his professionalism. And if Tommy was calling him over, something had to be professionally wrong. Right?

Wrong. Evidently, Techno should never put his faith in Tommy actually being a professional, because he could see, now that he’d given up his tiny patch of shade, that Tommy was outright cackling at something on screen. A consummate professional would never do that.

“TechnoBALD!” Tommy was screaming, choking on his own laughter. “Oh man, big man Blade, you have to see this. I admire your dedication, really, because this is just—“

Tommy rewinded the video back just a little, just so he could freeze the frame he found so amusing, zooming in and thrusting the phone into his face so Techno could see— yeah, there he was. Techno, mid-jump, in all of his glory, face twisting in concentration.

Except it looked more like a grimace of pain, and his hair had been whipped to one side, the cotton-candy pink of it blending in with their pastel LED background displays.

So, yes, TechnoBald. Thank you, TommyInnit, this was just what he needed pointing out, right before going on stage for a major performance he was already stressed out by.

Needless to say, it was not a flattering shot. Techno winced. He looked like he was being punched by an invisible force, if the force had hands that were digging into his nose.

“How did your face… do that?” Wilbur asked, amazed. “I think your cheeks are fully anti-gravity, there.”

“What can I say,” Techno said, voice even in a way his spirit wasn’t. “Even the forces of physics bend before Technoblade.”

“They bend Technoblade, maybe,” Phil mused. “You look like you just broke your nose. On a wall of wind.”

“I think we should submit this for scientific review,” Tommy snatched the phone out of Phil’s hand, positively gleeful. “Don’t mind as I just—“ he continued, tongue sticking out in concentration.

The shuttering sound of a screenshot being taken only served to further grate at Techno’s nerves.

“If that ends up on the Internet,” he started, breathing through the beginnings of a headache. “I cannot be held accountable for any retributive action.”

“I’m a minor, big man,” Tommy replied, his eyes glinting with delight. “So, I’ll have you know, I have big law on my side.”

“Noo,” Techno protested, sarcastic. “Not big law! My clout, please, no, think of how many fans would instantly unfollow our Twitter account, Tommy, if not for me— then have it be for our clout.

“That’s where you have it wrong, Technoblade— this is precisely the sort of thing that will give _me_ clout, at the expense of _yours_ , and this is why I am twice the man you will ever be.” Tommy’s fingers were tapping cheerfully on his keyboard. “What do we think, what’s a good caption?”

“Bruhh, this is self sabotage— we are on a team here, Tommy! Do not profit from my downfall! No! Tommy—“ Techno lunged, trying to snatch Phil’s phone out of Tommy’s hand, but the kid was slippery, and twisted cleanly out of his grip, squealing as he ran across the stadium. 

“DON’T YOU DARE!” Techno shouted, scrambling to chase after him.

The rest of his teammates were useless, of course. Phil was doing that thing where his hands were clapped in delight, his boisterous peels of laughter nowhere near enough to express his amusement. After all, as the pleasant sounds of Tommy’s fearful screaming and Techno’s low growling reverated through the stadium, this team was better entertainment than any network TV show.

And by the looks of it, Techno had succeeded, having trapped Tommy with a knee on his back, in having the offending pictures deleted, Tommy flailing about for the phone now out of his reach. Despite all that, Techno still wasn’t the real winner that day.

The real winner was one Wilbur Soot, who’s secretly recorded video of Techno and Tommy’s scuffle quickly went viral on Twitter.

An easy 100k-er, for sure.  
  
  


**[4. that time Tommy tried to prank Wilbur. what could go wrong?]**

“No, Tommy,” said Techno, a picture of tranquility.

“Yes, Tommy,” insisted Tommy. “See, all you have to do is say these words, ‘yes, Tommy,’ and that’s all I need from you, and you can go back to reading your— is this a history textbook?!”

“It was either this or what you would call, and I quote, ‘that weeb shit’.” Techno replied evenly. “Which—“

“I know, I know, it isn’t even weeb shit cause it’s fucking Chinese, listen, I do actually learn things you know. These things can get me cancelled on Twitter, man, and you know how serious I am about Twitter. When you studied the blade, I studied the algorithm.” 

“Well, good to know, Tommy. But the answer’s still no.” Techno shut his book with a definite ‘thud’, deigning Tommy with only a passing glance as he stood. He wasn’t going to get anymore reading done today, was he.

Techno really had to stretch more, the pink-haired man thought with a wince, his spine cracking as he got up. After all, he wasn’t as young or as spry as some of his other bandmates anymore, one of whom seemed hell bent on going from “young and spry” to “young and dead, unfortunately, killed by the bassist of his own band, what a tragedy.”

“But why thoooough,” Tommy said, dragging out the last few syllables. And there was no dignified way to describe what Tommy was doing here, other than ‘whining’, maybe, if you were really generous. “It would be so glorious, Blade! Think of all the likes we’ll get from it, Techno. 100k-er, for sure. It’ll be revenge, even! For that time at the stadium…”

Techno keeps his mouth flat, but only just, the corner of his lips struggling not to lift into a bemused smile, his sense of humor battling his deep seated annoyance of having a nice evening of peace disrupted, once again, by TommyInnit. “There would have been no ‘time at the stadium’ if you had not threatened to post my candids on the internet, you know. Not sure we can pin all that onto just Wilbur, there.”

Tommy threw himself dramatically onto the floor, pounding his fists onto the ground as he declared his life’s purpose moot. Techno’s hands itched to reach into his pocket and commit this moment not just to his memory, but also to his iPhone photo library.

“We were meant to be a team! The dynamic duo! All I need is a little piece of plastic, you know, it’ll be so harmless—“

“Ah,” Techno smiled, “of course! How could I have hesitated. In that case, then,” he continued, reaching into his back pocket.

Tommy’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Of course not, you fucking idiot,” Techno yelled, irked at Tommy’s hopeful, incredulous expression. “I’m not gonna fucking hand you Wilbur’s extra room key, it’s for emergencies, Tommy!”

“This is an emergency!” Tommy groaned. “It’s an emergency for my pride! Ugh,” he waved his limbs around dramatically. “Why are you like this, Technoblade?”

“Because,” Techno said, strained, stepping delicately over a writhing arm. Which was moving in a manner suspiciously similar to their latest dance routine. “I do not want to die an early death by Wilbur Soot. I don’t have many expectations for my death, okay, but at the very least, I would like for my headstone to not say, ‘1999-2020. Killed in an unfortunate strangulatory accident involving fellow bandmate Wilbur Soot.’”

“Ughh,” Tommy grumbled into the floor, rolling back onto his back. Where he proceeded to start doing the worm. Christ, forget whatever terrible prank Tommy was planning on Wilbur, a video of this moment right now would get them trending in record speed.

“And then,” Techno continued, “Wilbur would have to live with being a murderer, and what will you do then, Tommy? I don’t know if you’ve seen us, Tommy, but I’m not sure how much of a band you can have with your most talented member dead and your best-looking member in jail.”

“Hey, I’m good lookin— wait, no, I’m talented! Hey! Techno! What were you saying? I’m talented, aren’t I? Hey— come back! Don’t make me angrily ‘mmm’ at you, cause I will! You watch your back, Technoblade!”

**[6. the time when they were reminded of just why they were called the sleepy boys]**

Spending a night on a tour bus was always going to be weird.

Their management tried not to let it happen too much, and were usually good about stopping in some motel somewhere just for the night, but it still happened from time to time. They’ve all gotten pretty used to the closed quarters and bumpy roads, but.

It was still a challenge, some nights. I mean, there’s the obvious problem of Tommy being a hyperactive teenager, but he’s far from the only culprit— Wilbur’s sleep schedule was all over the place as well. He liked to stay out in the break room, tinkling with harmonic lines and chord personalities till everyone else was well asleep. He tried to be quiet when he snuck into bed, but more often than not, Techno would be startled awake still.

So Techno wasn’t, say, overjoyed, when their manager David called to let them know that they were running a little behind schedule, sorry, and won’t be stopping at a motel for the night after all. There was a little groaning, as is customary, but given how it was already nearing midnight, all four of them shuffled about to begin their various nightly routines with minimal fuss.

Techno reached a pair of pajamas as Wilbur ran a hand roughly through his hair, quietly asking if Tommy wanted to help him through a melody line he was stuck on. Techno had the lyrics down already, but they were still running through a couple of different versions, indecisive as always. Phil took one look at the duo headed to the bus’ break room in the back, headphones and synth pads tucked beneath their arms, and announced to the group that he was heading up front to call Kristen.

This was all par for the course, their late night routines well coordinated by now, moving so easily around each other you’d think they were choreographed. Techno picked up his bag of toiletries, swerving gently around Phil before planting himself in their tiny, clean bathroom to wash up for the night.

He went through the motions mechanically, mind mostly focused on the soft sounds of Wilbur and Tommy vocalizing in the back. Face washed before teeth brushed, then… The pre-chorus was troubling them a little, Techno could tell, with Wilbur wanting something more dynamic, rhythmically, but it must’ve been stumping him, judging by his starting and stopping.

They’ll figure it out, Techno thought, looking at himself in the mirror, testing out a smile. They always do.

He’s glad they’re rushing through the roads of the midwest tonight and not tomorrow, though. Techno had washed his hair yesterday, leaving it glossy and smooth now, his fingers delicately twisting the strands as he brushed it out. He hated it when his hair schedule was interrupted by touring delays— sleeping with greasy hair wasn’t fun, especially since he had so much of it.

Still, Techno thought wryly, the maintenance was worth the hassle. It was nice, anyways, to have a personal routine he could rely on, something he did before bed always, regardless of where he was. It didn’t matter if he was in a fancy hotel, his tiny bag of toiletries dwarfed by the marble countertops; or if he was in just another mom-and-pop motel, the rustic wallpapering fading, gleaming brass detailing the faucets.

It didn’t even matter if he was here, in their tiny bathroom on their speeding bus, being driven to nowhere in the dead of the night. As long as he had a mirror, and his trusty bag, that was all Techno needed to be anchored down. Settled, steadied in his own skin.

Well, all that, and the knowledge that his friends were never too far. He could hear Phil’s laugh, now, floating gently above the engine’s whirr, could hear how it was coming closer, his phone call probably winding down.

Caught up in his thoughts, he barely noticed what he was doing, rubbing oil into his pastel hair as he felt his body loosening up. His hands moved deftly, the motions familiar with practice, sectioning out the waist length mass into two equal parts.

Sighing happily, he went to work braiding it neatly, his favorite part. He liked the rhythm of it, of this last step, his fingers dancing as he coaxed his hair into two loose plaits. They were good to keep his hair out of his face when he slept, but more importantly, helped prevent any further friction damage on his dyed hair. It was pretty much a ritual at this point, him zoning out while braiding his hair, the motion comforting in the way only familiarity could bring.

At some point, midway through his second braid, Phil walked by, pausing outside of the open door. “Phone call over?” Techno asked around the scrunchie he was holding in his mouth,

Phil leaned against the doorway. “Yeah. Kristen says hi.”

Techno smiled. “Tell her I miss her pies,” he answered, twisting the hair tie around his final strand. Straightening up, he took a good look at his reflection, before zipping up his bag, patting Phil’s shoulder as he slipped out of the room. “All yours.”

“Thanks mate.” Phil straightened up, taking Techno’s place in front of the sink. “Go to bed,” he added to Techno’s retreating figure through a mouthful of toothpaste, like the team Dad he was.

“Not a problem,” Techno called back at him. “I like to sleep more than I like any of you morons.”

It was easier said than done, though, Techno had to admit as he climbed up into his usual middle bunk. Sound travelled easily in their tiny bus, and it was usually a pretty bumpy drive, depending on how the roads were in whichever part of the midwest they were traveling through.

He shrugged, resigning himself to a poor night’s sleep. The chances of him falling asleep easily were slim, and the chances of him being woken up in the middle of the night by Tommy’s sleep-talking were high. He settled down in his bunk, fluffing up his pillow with a sigh.

The things he sacrificed for this band, really.

Closing his eyes, he tried to block out everything but the ambient sound. He could still hear Tommy testing out a beat with sharp raps of his knuckles, Wilbur humming along. The low, buzzing roar of the bus engine barely drowned out the general sounds of Phil’s washing up— Techno could still hear, faintly, the rush of water in the pipes, and the quiet thud of his footsteps on the moving floor.

Techno rolled over onto his side. He would never admit it, but there was something comforting about this, still. Maybe it was the familiar scratchiness of these sheets, maybe it was the tight, confining space that’s always felt less claustrophobic and more soothing, like the gentle press of a hug.

Maybe it was just the general knowledge that his favorite people in the world were a mere shout away. The grounding reassurance that they were still near him, that he wasn’t alone. 

Whatever it was, it helped Techno tamp down his annoyance. Maybe this wasn’t the most ideal sleeping situation for most people, hell, it definitely wasn't even for Techno.

Yet he’s been well conditioned. It was going to be a long night, sure, but with only some grumbling and a few irritated tosses, Techno fell into a shallow sleep easily enough.

**[6. that time where the sleepy boys woke up. and then immediately descended into bickering]**

“Techno, shut your fucking alarm up.”

Techno would, really, as soon as he could get out of this bed without crashing down to the ground. But thanks, Wilbur. Your snark is much appreciated.

The bedroom on their bus was a tiny stretch of space with two sets of triple bunk beds, just enough to fit the four of them, their manager David, and Niki. Their team was bigger than this, but half of their staff (security, mostly) were on another bus precisely because they didn’t want to be woken up at the crack of dawn. No, that was only for Techno to suffer through. 

(And sometimes Tommy, when he had a bunch of homework. And Wilbur, when he had a new song he was working on. And sometimes Phil, when he wanted to work on logistics with their manager. Listen, when one of them starts suffering, usually the rest are quick to follow.)

But today, it was just Techno. Groaning, he tumbled out of bed, barely catching himself in time. “I got it. It’s not my fault I have all this hair, Wil.”

“And I will forever curse Phil for his horrible goading. Or I would, if you didn’t look so good. Now fuck off. I need to bed.” Theatrically, Wilbur flopped over, dragging his pillow over his head, peace-ing out to the rest of the world.

Techno rolled his eyes, amused despite himself, idling scrolling through his phone as he slammed the alarm shut. Below him, Tommy peaked his head out of the curtain he drew back. “Wha time ‘sit?” He groaned.

“5 in the morning,” Techno hummed.

“Fuck. Alright. I’ll get up.” Tommy sat up, rubbing his eyes for a bit. He had an easier time stumbling out of bed than Techno did, since he always took the bottom bunk after an unfortunate incident involving a sharp turn and also a general lack of regard for his own safety. It was better this way, though— Techno was no longer waking up with every small thump in the middle of the night, terrified that Tommy had been thrown onto the floor again.

“Homework?” Techno asked, keeping his voice low, mindful of Phil and Wilbur still sleeping away.

“Yeah,” Tommy rubbed at his eyes, tired. “Told Tubbo to tell Mrs Henderson I’m gonna be late, like that’s anything new, but it’s a big project, so, y’know. Might as well get started now.”

Techno hummed, turning to make his way to the back of their bus, which was a combination make-up glam room slash office area. A stretch of pretty comfortable couches lined the hardwood walls in a U-shape, framing an impressively sized table with office chairs surrounding the free edge. There was a vanity off to the side of the front section, and in the day, it would be hit by sunlight streaming in from the windows, framing the area in flattering light, helpful for selfies and any last minute make up applications.

But of course, it was 5am. So, still pretty dark right now. Tommy sunk into one of the office chairs with relish, grunting as he set up his laptop.

Turning to the vanity, Techno started working on his hair, the real reason why he had to wake up so much earlier than everyone else. He had a lot of hair, alright? It was a lot of upkeep, he’ll have you know.

He starts, as usual, by letting it down from the braids he sleeps in, taking care not to snag any of the pieces as he loosened them with his fingers. The weight of it all hurt his scalp sometimes, but putting it up helped to deal with that some. Still, it’s always a relief to scratch at his scalp, blunt fingernails soothing the constant tension there.

“Headaches?” Tommy asked, quiet. “I have some ibuprofen, if you want.”

“Concentrate on your work, you little munchkin,” was Techno’s reply, voice fond. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t wannaaa,” Tommy whined, drawing the last sound out. “It’s another one of those video essays, assigned by a professor who has no idea how video editing actually works, and she wants it on a, like, ‘socially relevant topic’, whatever that means, so I can’t even just submit a vlog or something.”

Tommy pouted, barreling on. “And Tubbo’s absolutely no help. He’s doing his music in cognition or some shit. Like, how music helps you focus or nah. Can you believe that nerd?”

Secretly, Techno thought that Tubbo’s idea sounded quite cool, actually, but Tommy was looking annoyed enough, so he merely coughed, refrained from voicing that thought out loud.

Tommy opened his mouth, but before he could complain further, Niki stumbled into the room, looking more put together than both Techno and Tommy somehow, despite her ratty sweats and oversized pajama shirt. 

“You ready?” She said through a yawn, gesturing at Techno.

“Yeah. No bleach today?”

“Nah,” Niki hummed. “Just gotta touch up your roots a little! Shouldn’t hurt.”

Techno’s hair was light enough that he didn’t need to bleach it too frequently, but his roots still grew in, demanding the steady application of more and more pink dye. Occasionally Niki toned or lightened it or something, Techno wasn’t too sure himself, but he was happy to leave the technicalities to the professionals. As long as it stayed a pale, bubblegum pink, he was happy enough.

The motions of Niki’s skilled hands were familiar, soothing, almost, and Techno closed his eyes, Tommy’s keyboard clicking away in the background. Maybe he could slip in a short doze here, Techno thought, sighing with relief.

“… Techno?” Tommy asked, tentative. Of course, Tommy would interrupt him. Could a man never rest?

Techno exhaled. It was stressful for Tommy, he reminded himself placatingly, to juggle school and this whole band thing. He had to be sympathetic, he repeated, like a mantra in his head. “Yeah?”

“Listen, about this project— what if I did it on like, celebrity culture or some shit. That’s societally relevant, innit.”

Techno shifted in his seat, rolling a stray piece of hair in his fingers. “I mean, it is relevant, but I’m not sure if you should do that.”

“Why not! It’s brilliant! I have personal experience, even! I am a big man celebrity, did you know. My last concert was a sold out stadium performance!”

“I know, Tommy, I was there,” Techno replied, pained. “I’m just saying, man, I don’t know if it’s a good idea. Just— watch what you say in it. If it gets out, and the fans get a hold of it, there’s a chance they might get offended if you’re, I don’t know, too critical, and not, like, appreciative enough, or something?”

Tommy blinked at him.

Techno sighed. Sometimes he delighted in killing Tommy’s hopes and dreams, but other times, watching the light go out in his eyes did feel kinda bad. “Just— I don’t think it’s a good idea.

Tommy stared at him. “Jesus Christ. That’s quite pessimistic, my man.”

“Yeah, I get that often,” Techno shrugged, mouth quirked in amusement. “Usually from you, you know.”

“You really gotta lighten up, man,” Tommy barreled on, assignment thrown to one side. “We should really find you a girlfriend or something.”

Techno spread his hands, magnanimous, even as he was dead inside. “By all means, go ahead.”

Tommy groaned, loud, but he was excited now, his face lit up in animation now that they were discussing one of his favorite topics. “You gotta give me something to go off of! I’m good, Blade, but I’m not that good.”

Techno suppressed the smirk that desperately wanted to shape his lips, but only just. “What do you wanna know?”

“I mean, I don’t know? What are you interested in?”

“Mm, let’s see. Music, that’s a pretty big one, shaped my job around it, after all. Video games? I like those. Cynicism? That’s pretty key. A good sense of direction…”

“Hey, hey, hey, now you’re just taking the piss out of me, Techno,” Tommy warned, his stern tone betrayed by his face splitting grin.

“I’m dead serious, Thomas, how am I to have a partner with a bad sense of direction? Next thing you know, you’ll be getting a call from this imaginary partner, say they’re named Tommy, perhaps, well, Tommy’s gonna call you in New York, asking you for directions, and then you’ll say, just head four blocks east, Tommy, and then they’ll say, where the hell is east—“

Niki stifled a laugh, painting pink onto crinkling pieces of foil in Techno’s hair. She’s heard this story before.

“Alright alright now Techno we get the point, alright, no need to go into it further—“ Tommy tried, but that was all the words he managed to edge in, before—

“—and you’ll say, east, Tommy! You know, where the sun is, and then this gremlin child will argue back, loudly, in his grating British accent—“

“And he’ll say, I don’t know where the fuck the sun is, just tell me if I’m going left or right!” Wilbur interrupted, walking into the room, looking quite sleep rumpled and tired, grinning at the familiar bickering. 

Wilbur paused to lean against the doorway, gesturing at Techno while continuing, “and then this grown man right here will scream, what do you mean you don’t know where the sun is, do you not know how to look up—“

“Is this a fucking greek chorus?” Techno cut in. “I thought I was telling a stor—“

Wilbur barreled on, grinning as he made eye contact with Niki, “And then the child would scream so loudly that he could be heard even through the phone, wouldn’t he? He’ll scream, ‘LEFT OR RIGHT?’”

Tommy threw up his hands. “This is defamation, I’ll have you know, defamation of my very good character, you’ll be hearing from my lawye—“

“And then Techno will say, ‘How can I tell you left or right when I don’t know which direction you’re facing?!’” Phil finished for all of them, hip-checking Wilbur out of the way as he joined the rest of his rowdy, rowdy band. “Now, anyone wanna enlighten me, just why was I woken up by this old fucking conversation for the fucking hundredth time?” He asked.

“Is that coffee?” Tommy zoned in on the cups in Phil’s hand, easily distracted as always.

“Yeah, none for you, you over-caffeinated nightmare. Not until you answer my question.”

“Techno started it!” Tommy replied, way too quickly.

Techno groaned. This fucking band, really.

“Oh…kay…” Phil said, slow, “I’m sure. What happened?”

“Nothing! He’s just a miserable bastard, you know, he really needs to lighten up sometimes, our Techno. I love ya, big man, but you’re weighing me down.”

Wilbur laughed, ruffling Tommy’s hair easily. “Oh but Tommy, who’ll be the mysterious one, without our stoic, cryptic Technoblade?”

“Oh, for bollock’s sake— Phil can be the mysterious one.”

“And who will be the leader then?”

“You could do it!”

“And then who will be the womanizer, Tommy?” Wilbur goaded, grinning at how Phil was biting his lips to keep his chuckle in. “Surely not you, I would think?”

“Women love me!” Tommy shouted, but he was laughing now too, his poker face nowhere near strong enough to stand the banter of his bandmates combined. “I despise your insinuation that you’re better at women than me, I’ll have you know, I’ll do just fine as the womanizer—“

Tommy was still going, his voice quickening to a feverish pace, but he was drowning out in the sea of collective laughter. Somehow they always found themselves back here— Tommy fighting to be heard over the hoard of laughter he induced himself. Really, he was his own enemy here, Techno thought, watching the lad leap up at Wilbur in an attempt to wrestle away the little notebook in his hands.

“No more TommyInnit quote book!” Tommy was shouting, as Wilbur kept taunted him, keeping the book out of reach.

It was too early in the morning for Tommy’s endless liveliness. Techno’s head started, vaguely, to ache around the temples. He barely had the energy to keep up even after he had a couple of coffees in him usually, so forget about managing all of Tommy’s zeal at 5am.

As Tommy’s shouts and Wilbur’s taunts grated away at his sanity, he willed a breath in, and another out, reminding himself exactly how illegal murder was. And then contemplated it anyways, if only for a singular moment of silence.

“Am I in a band? Am I in a band, or am I in the ninth circle of hell?” Techno wondered aloud, knowing even as he said it that no one, absolutely no one cared at all.

And even if they were, there would be absolutely no sympathy, because this was his life, in this wreck of a band with his terrible, unsympathetic bandmates. Techno didn't expect much from God, alright, but maybe some mercy would have been nice. But no, he couldn’t even have been granted that. 

No, sadly, he’s just been blessed with one TommyInnit instead.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please do drop a kudos/comment if you enjoyed this! ♥


	2. and the one time tommy failed at doing just that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> once again, please do check out kiskurs beautiful art if you haven't yet. [TWITTER LINK](https://twitter.com/Kiskurs/status/1316847324358938624/photo/1)

**[+1. and that one time Tommy's annoyance carried them all]**

Technoblade really did like his job.

No, he really does. He has to remind himself of the fact every now and then, sure, but usually, all he had to do was grit his teeth against the grating sounds of a patented TommyInnit screech and think about how much he loved being on stage.

In really dire times, sometimes he had to concentrate really hard on the stash of fan letters he had, recalling how their music was loved and appreciated by so many, but even that, horrifyingly, wasn’t enough right now.

He seemed to be the only one stressed out of his mind, too, judging by Phil’s quiet excitement and Wilbur’s eager, lilting laugh. Tommy’s just Tommy, but you know, he’s also currently going off about Twitter likes and Beyonce, so.

Techno ran a hand over the lustrous velvet interior of the limousine they were seated in, a far cry from the messy couches of their tour bus, and felt painfully out of place. Almost like he shouldn’t, and couldn’t, get comfortable on them. The stiff fabric was not meant for sitting, he decided, but just for posing, despite it’s deceptively plush seams. And perched as he was, uncomfortably atop of the rough cushioning of the seats, he, too, felt solely decorative in his chiffon dress shirt, pleats running down to a corseted waist, his wide-legged slacks flaring out around polished oxfords that were already rubbing blisters into his feet.

Shifting his weight, he envied Tommy, sprawled across an entire row of seats meant for three, thoughtlessly kicking his own, well-shined shoes up onto the upholstery. He had his blazer strewn over his shoulder, the high-necked ruffles on his dress shirt seemingly bothering him none at all. Maybe it was less the outfit, then, but more knowledge that John Legend was soon going to be in his near vicinity.

Jesus Christ. What is his life? What is he doing, here, now, on his way to a bloody Grammy’s afterparty?

They weren’t nominated this year— of course they weren’t, they were an up and coming idol group that had only released their first full album this year, but they were still given a nod from the industry, being invited to present an award and attend the event’s exclusive afterparty, and that thought was heady, terrifying. It was a cue to just how they’ve just blown up amongst the teen demographics, probably, but despite their newfound popularity, Techno still felt stubbornly out of place, in this sleek black limousine with his artfully gelled hair.

“I’m just saying, there’s two ways we can go about this,” Tommy gestured wildly, bringing a finger up as if he was, or would ever be, making a valid point. “I could corner her alone, pull the ‘I am a huge fan, Lemonade changed my life, could I please have a selfie and also maybe a signature, this would get me so many likes on Twitter’ move.”

“Well, definitely don’t do that,” Phil snorted, amused as always at Tommy’s ridiculousness. Techno wished desperately that he could feel likewise, but no, no, poor Technoblade, he was only capable of mortification and also dread when it came to Tommy’s, you know, everything.

“Okay, but if not that, I’ll need you guys to come with, then, pull it off as like a networking or a band thing, please?” Tommy implored, pulling out the puppy eyes that only worked if someone 1. didn’t actually know Tommy or 2. was feeling particularly sympathetic or 3. wanted Tommy to please shut up now, please, anything for him to stop talking.

Techno was currently none of those three things, but unfortunately, Tommy did have a point, they probably would be less embarrassing as a group, so. Techno would voice his tentative approval of the plan, but actually, he’d much rather just stare, unfocused, into the glowing red of the traffic light they were stopped at.

* * *

Out of Techno’s line of sight, Wilbur nudged at Phil, cocking a concerned eyebrow at the fidgeting man. “He alright?” Phil mouthed back at Wilbur, not wanting to draw Techno’s attention.

Wilbur shrugged, giving a small smile. “One of us should stick close to him, probably.” He said, voice low.

“I’ll take care of the man, you manage the child?”

“Sounds good,” Wilbur agreed cheerfully as their car screeched into a halt.

“Alright,” Phil called out, louder now. “Everyone! Here’s the memo. There’s paps outside of the car and there’ll be a backdrop right at the hotel. Pause for photos at the latter, walk through the former. Clear?”

“You got it, big man,” Tommy threw him a thumbs up.

“Okay,” Phil continued. “David, Niki, there’ll be someone to bring you round back. Stick close with at least one member of security if any of you wanna wander off. Ready in three, two—“

At “one”, Phil swung the car door open to the frenzied shouts from paparazzi and fans alike. Techno had braced himself for the onslaught of flashing lights at Phil’s countdown, but he still winced at the noise, a tiny thing he prayed no one caught on camera.

“SBI! SBI this way! Tommy, Wilbur, look over here! Who are you most excited to see tonight?” Some pap was calling out, shrill as they made their way down the walkway into the hotel. Techno gave them a tense smile, waving a little, while Tommy laughed and shouted back, “Beyonce! Give her a good word for me, won’t you!”

Wilbur shook his head ruefully, laughing at how Tommy’s brazen attitude was absolutely unfazed by a mob of camera and fans. He put a gentle hand on Tommy’s shoulder, guiding away from all the lights.

Tommy was like a moth, drawn instantly to whatever the shiniest thing was. It was, as with everything TommyInnit, as endearing as it was frustrating.

Phil was keeping a low conversation with Techno, the two less flashy members of the band less mobbed by the paps who knew they weren’t gonna get any juicy headlines out of them. Techno dropped a wave or two, ducking his head bashfully, but mostly, he focused on putting one foot ahead of the other.

At the grand staircase of the hotel landing, they paused for pictures as a team. They looked good, really good, actually, a mix of sharp corners and soft edges in their usual red, white and black ensembles, having changed out of the stiff black suits worn for the actual ceremony into something a little more  _ them _ . 

Wilbur was beaming from underneath his signature red beanie, his soft white sweater wrapping around his frame. He had one arm swung around Phil’s shoulders, whose torso was fitted in a deep forest green vest, so dark it only appeared green when it with the right light. The delicate golden buttons holding that together matched with the gold detailing on Tommy’s white dress shirt, little vines rising from the cuffs of his sleeves and curling around his arms. 

Techno was smiling, even, familiar with this part of the show, his hands tucked into his pockets and his gaze shy. Wilbur had no such reservations— he was waving and smiling at familiar members of the press, smacking Tommy whenever looked like he was going to bolt inside and start scouring the dance floor for one Beyonce  _ right now _ .

Phil gave one last parting bow before security ushered them inside, leading them down to the ballroom. The music was already audible, loud and pumping, and he could see Tommy physically ease into an eager, exuberant mood.

“So what’s the plan?” Techno asked evenly.

“The plan is, find Beyonce, get a picture, trend on Twitter!” Tommy crowed, pumping a fist into the air.

Wilbur slowly lowered his face into his hands. “My plan is to keep TommyInnit alive,” he said, glum.

“I think Ed’s here somewhere,” Phil said, distracted, glancing around the main event space they just stepped into.

The main event space, a wide expanse of dark walls and polished floors, was framed by neon strobe lights and tiny, impractical little sofas. Waiters were buzzing about, smiles plastered on their faces, carrying flutes of champagne and delicate plates of hors d’oeuvres.

Yeah, this wasn’t Techno’s idea of a good time. And his primary plan of, ‘sit on a sofa somewhere so still he could reasonably be mistaken for a statue, please’ seemed unfeasible given the 1. size of the sofas and 2. amount of people happily socializing away.

So Techno stood, rooted to the floor, just off the entrance, desperately trying to take things in without collapsing from information overload. Someone walked past him in a poofy pink dress, as if cosplaying a loofa, wafting by an air of sweet bubblegum perfume.

“I think that was Ariana Grande,” he said, dazed.

Tommy slammed his hand down onto Techno’s back in what was probably meant to be a comforting gesture, grinning. “And you would be right, big man. Look at us! We made it! We gotta go, Blade, there are insiders to cozy up and people to see. Good old TommyInnit! At the Grammys afterparty!” He cackled as he walked away, voice fading in volume but not in intensity.

Wilbur sighed, patting Techno’s back in at a much more appropriate intensity. “I’ll go after him. You just stay here, and look shell shocked, and maybe have a tiny sandwich or two, okay?”

Techno gave him a tight smile.

“Yeah, thought so. Well!” Wilbur shook his head with a rueful smile, and began stalking over to Tommy’s retreating figure, which had paused to strike up a conversation with—

“Is that Lizzo?,” Techno said, feeling faint.

“Yeap.” Phil grinned, shoving his hands into his pockets, content to stand around and watch Techno acclimatize. There should really be a David Attenborough-esque voice-over narration behind this, truly, it was that entertaining of a sight.

“I hope no one tries to talk to me,” Techno said weakly, blinking at a waiter who paused by him.

“Would you like anything, sir? This is poached tofu with caviar, Mr. Blade.”

“How do you know my name,” was Techno’s feeble reply.

Phil smacked a palm on his forehead. “Excuse my friend. Yes, sure, thank you, we’ll take two,” he replied, smoothly taking over the situation. “Techno,” he hissed. “Get it together, man.”

Techno looked blankly down at the tiny plate of tofu Phil handed him. “Oh. Okay.”

“Hey! Oh my god, is that Technoblade and Philza?!” Someone called out. Techno’s head shot up, eyes wide, just in time to see Lewis Capaldi heading over in his direction, grinning cheerfully at them.

“Hiya, Lewis, mate!” Thank god for Phil, for Techno was still spooked to be coherent. “Fancy seeing you here— weren’t you also at the Brits, as well?”

“Absolutely, mate! Good seeing some fellow countrymen here, I’ve been drowning in Americans. But of course you have this lad,” Lewis smiled, clapping Techno’s shoulder good-naturedly.

Techno did remember seeing the ginger singer-songwriter a couple times in their circles, what with three-fourths of his band being British and all. He felt himself loosen up, just a tad, at his familiar energy. “Hullo,” he managed. “Pretty interesting day, huh?”

Lewis laughed like Techno just said something hilarious. “For sure. Hey, man, you two do most of the producing for your band, yeah?”

“I do a little, yeah,” Phil replied. “Techno and Wilbur do most of it, but Wil’s off corralling Tommy before he hacks into the DJ station.”

“Good old Tommy,” Lewis said, fond in a way only people who’ve been exposed to Tommy in only moderated, limited doses can be. “Maybe I’ll introduce you to— oh— hey! Shawn Mendes, what’s going on!” He called out jovially, stopping the tall, striking man in his tracks.

Techno closed his eyes for just a brief moment. He could handle this. He was a fully grown man! So what if Shawn fucking Mendes was walking on over. Which— why was he doing that? What was there to see here? What the—

“What’s up man, love your shit,” Shawn Mendes (it seemed disrespectful to refer to him as just Shawn, somehow, even just in Techno’s head) pulled Lewis in for a man-hug. “Fucking— Philza! Technoblade! Yo, your stuff was all over my for you page, man, good goings!” He said, reaching over to shake their hands.

Techno took it, smiling a little. Ostensibly, this was the whole purpose of the afterparty— network, talk, make friends, discuss collaborations, but right now, he was feeling a little faint. “Coming from you? I’ll take that,” he offered, trying on a grin.

“Our bandmate Tommy’s been obsessed with your latest song, so back at ya,” Phil smiled.

They were forming a small group, one of the number one things Techno sought to avoid at these parties, because small groups drew attention, and it would snowball into a larger one, and soon enough, yep, this was happening, just as he predicted, he was surrounded by various people he couldn’t name and a shocking few that he could.

He blinked up at Camila Cabello, who was laughing in a breathy, airy voice, seemingly amused at nothing at all. He hadn’t offered anything in the past couple of minutes but vague noises of assent and strained smiles, but there were still people fawning over him, for some reason, wanting to talk about their latest single, but also mostly about themselves.

By the time Phil snuck a glance at his only American bandmate, Techno was holding himself so tensely, a muscle was feathering in his jaw from how hard he was clenching it. It was heart wrenching in an unfortunate, comedic sort of way, and he had to pretend the uproarious peal of laughter he let out was because of something Ed Sheeran (Ed Sheeran!) said instead.

Incepting a waiter with one hand, Phil leaned in and picked up two flutes of champagne from her tray. He would really have preferred something stronger, but this was a classy joint, and also Techno was a lightweight, so.

Said Techno blinked twice at the glass Phil handed over to him, before looking back up to blink at Phil. “At a work function?” He mouthed.

Phil shrugged, raising his eyebrows, and downed the whole glass in one smooth motion. Techno, bless his soul, stared at him only for a beat longer, letting out a soft, “aw, what the hell,” before following suit.

“Excuse me, lads,” Phil smiled at the rapidly expanding group gathered around them, and grabbed onto Techno’s elbow. “The bar calls.”

* * *

On the other end of the room, the two other esteemed members of SBI were having a ball. Faring very well indeed, if you asked them.

Of course, if you asked any other person in their side of the room, they would reply incredulously, “that’s SBI? Those two idiots who are slinking behind the drapes right now?”

But no, in Tommy and WIlbur’s minds, they looked mighty and glorious, two mountain lions reigning over the land, striding with purpose on their hunt for, uh, Beyonce.

“Target located! Target located! Wilbur, this is our chance,” Tommy hissed, ducking behind a table. He dropped to all fours, creeping behind a chair, voice low as he continued, “mission operative spotting, location 2 o’clock. Agent Wilbur, do you copy?”

“Copy, Agent Tommy,” Wilbur was crouched behind a lamp, making use of an unsuspecting waiter to slink towards Tommy’s location. “Meeting for rendezvous in 3— 2—“

“Pzzt.”

Tommy looked over at Wilbur in horror. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Pzzt.”

Wilbur stared back, just for a second, before he started patting down his pockets in a panic. “My phone! My phone’s vibrating! Third party interception, mission on hold!”

“There is no time for a held mission Wilbur! Cut out this roleplaying shit immediately, this is Beyonce we are talking about, I only get one chance to be in the presence of her Majesty and I don’t say that lightly as a disciple of the Queen, I do not intend to squander the night— What’s wrong?!” His tone changed abruptly into one of genuine concern when Wilbur’s face dropped, expression terse and knuckles white.

Wordlessly, Wilbur turned his phone around to show Tommy the text he just received from Phil.

“S.O.S.,” Tommy read aloud. “Technoblade Emergency. All help needed @ North bar.”

“North!” Tommy cried out, being dragged off by one determined Wilbur Soot. “Where the fuck is north!” He called after Wilbur, who was heedless of his bandmate’s anguish. “Why couldn’t he have just said left!”

* * *

The sight that greeted them was even sadder than the one Tommy imagined.

Techno gave a cheerless little wave, slumped as he was over one of those tall bar tables, his other hand clutched desperately around a champagne glass like it held the secret to life.

Tommy frowned. “Where’d you get one of those, man?” he asked, gesturing at Techno’s, er, mimosa, confused.

“I am very susceptible to peer pressure,” Techno answered, his voice only slightly slurred.

Wilbur waved wildly at the mass of people behind them. Jay-Z, Miley Cyrus, Lizzo and Taylor Swift could, vaguely, be seen dancing around. “What peers?!” He asked, voice strained with disbelief.

Techno looked sadly into his rapidly emptying glass.

“Philza Minecraft,” he said, forlorn.

Tommy and Wilbur swiveled as one to face the accused man.

“Did you fucking ply him with alcohol?!” Tommy hissed, hands raised above his head, threateningly.

Phil, at the least, had the gall to look slightly guilty. “He was freaking out on me! I didn’t know what else to do!”

“NOT DRUG HIM,” Wilbur shouted, pointing back at Techno like Phil had forgotten where he was. “Now look at what you’ve done!”

Techno squinted at the finger in his face. “Oh hello, Wilbur,” he said. “How was Beyonce.”

“What?!” Tommy whipped back to stare at the tipsy man.

“Does she glow in real life like she does in my dream?” Techno asked, pitifully, before taking another swig of his drink.

Wilbur rushed to pluck his glass out of his hands before Techno could polish it off. He stared at it for a second, before— “Aw, what the hell,” he said, downing the rest in one smooth shot.

Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, Wilbur looked back at the rest of his shell-shocked teammates. “Well, we need a plan,” he announced.

“Wasn’t the plan to find Beyonce?” Techno asked blearily, gazing woefully at Tommy. “You gotta go before it’s too late!”

Tommy stared, bug-eyed, back at Techno, until Wilbur kicked him firmly in the shin. 

“Ow, fuck— you didn’t have to do that, you know,” he glares at Wilbur. “Listen, Blade, buddy, and listen carefully: fuck Beyonce. You know, who needs Beyonce when there is TommyInnit, afterall, TommyInnit’s all Twitter ever needs, and you know, and what TommyInnit really needs right now is for you to be back at the hotel.”

Tommy turned back to face Wilbur and Phil. “And how are we going to do that, gentlemen?!” He hissed under his breath.

“I don’t know!” Phil said, throwing his hands up. “All I know was that Techno was standing there vibrating out of his skin while some model was fucking fawning over him and getting all up in his face and listen, alright, I’m from Northern Britain, okay, we have one solution for this problem and it is alcohol.”

Wilbur took his beanie off to scream into it. “Phil, and you know I love you, but respectfully, you’re an idiot.”

None of them tended to drink very much at these things, Northern pride notwithstanding, because usually at these things Techno tried very hard not to do very much at all and Phil was usually a beacon of responsibility and no one should ever, ever give Wilbur Soot alcohol in public, alright, least of all Wilbur Soot himself.

And also Tommy was a child. (Not that it mattered much at these private events, but the world hasn't ever seen Tommy drunk before, alright, and Wilbur plans to keep it that way. Tommy on caffeine was already a beast in itself, god forbid the day he discovers alcohol.)

Wilbur pressed the heel of his palm into a temple, trying desperately to ease the throbbing there. “Alright. New plan. Phil, we’re going to the bar and we’re fucking getting ourselves a drink. If we’re only gonna be here for an hour, I might as well get my money's worth of free alcohol. Tommy, you’re calling David and telling him to pick us up out back in fifteen minutes.”

“Why don’t I get any alcohol?” Tommy whined. “Listen, if we’re gonna blow this joint— wait, why do I have to call David? Wilbur? Wilbur! Listen, Wil, Big D’s gonna think this is my fault if I call him, no matter what I say! Hey— hey!”

“Shh,” Techno called out, Tommy’s voice hazy above him. The alcohol had blurred the edges of his vision, which was a welcome thing, because finally, he had stopped jumping every time someone even vaguely famous appeared in his periphery. He could almost pretend he was just at a fancy furniture show, really, if he ignored everyone else enough. Which, having bid sobriety goodbye for the night, came to him easily enough.

He could just zone in on Tommy’s never-ending drone of a voice, ranting angrily at Wilbur for abandoning him with a drunken excuse of a man (Techno vaguely realised he should probably feel offended by that, but really, he was floating too much right now really care).

“I guarantee you this was not my fault, big man Dave,” Tommy groaned over the phone. “I cannot even obtain alcohol from the bar, how do you think I drugged Technoblade?!”

Techno smiled into the table he was resting his chin on, Tommy’s usually grating voice just a welcome cut through the buzzing of the room instead. (or maybe that was just in his head? Hard to tell with all the alcohol) He was grateful for that, for some semblance of normal that Techno was clinging to because hey, if nothing else, Tommy’s volume, that he could understand. Ariana Grande stopping by the bar to look up at Wilbur through her eyelashes, he could not.

Jesus. Was Wilbur— huh, were they trading numbers? Techno snorted.

“Dear god, please do not vomit onto me, this is the last thing I need, I wanted to be on the news for Beyonce, Technoblade, not for being covered in his bandmates vomit—“

Distantly he could feel the annoyance he usually felt, trying to build up through the base of his spine, but it just wasn’t gaining traction, his mouth quirking up fondly instead. 

Somehow Tommy's voice was the anchor Techno needed, clinging to reality with the one normal thing he could understand. Tommy’s urgent press of words was an unrelenting stream of noise, sure, but at least it was something that Techno understood, when everything else around him just could not be processed. 

(He thinks Post Malone just high-fived Phil. He’s going to go to bed now, maybe. That seemed like a good note to end the night on. Just for a minute… He was gonna shut his eyes just a little bit...)

“You were meant to keep Techno alive!”

“Big man Wil, he still has a heartbeat, alright, I don’t know what else you want me to do, Philza has him drunk out of his mind—“

Techno snorted at that, hearing Tommy’s voice as if from very far away. But as their familiar squabble carried on, he couldn’t help but smile into the hand he was propping his head up on.

This was his band. Noisy, chaotic,  _ his _ . And he wouldn’t trade it for anything else in this world.

(Yeah, that includes Tommy.)

(Unfortunately.)

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please do drop a kudos or comment if you liked this! this took a lot out of me so ;-;
> 
> thank you so much for reading, remember to subscribe to the series/my profile for the next couple of fics in this au (i do not dare estimate a date for those as i will be swamped with nanowrimo over the course of november, so subscribing really is your best bet hhh)
> 
> ♡ o7

**Author's Note:**

> hi there is definitely more coming in this world, a little sneak peak on future titles:  
> 1\. 5 times wilbur soot wanted to hit someone with a guitar and the one time he serenades them  
> 2\. 5 times phil is A+ team dad and the one time he's philza minecraft  
> 3\. 5 times niki could have posted that to twitter and gotten like a bazillion likes and the one time she actually does
> 
> follow me on tumblr! [jamingbenn](jamingbenn.tumblr.com)
> 
> check out my other work!  
> dnf roommates au:[tpwwtp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25774585)  
> gogy birthday fic: [what he wants](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282521)  
> mcyt gen coffeeshop au: [somerset lane](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24800146)


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